"I know you are a gentleman of good conceit."
Rosalind and Maurice sat on the garden bench discussing "The Young
Marooners," one of the story books found in the garret.
"I shouldn't like to be carried off by a big fish as they were, but I do
think some sort of an adventure would be interesting. Don't you?" asked
Rosalind.
"We'll have to do something," Maurice agreed, "Don't you wish we could get
inside the Gilpin house? Mr. Wells, the teller in our bank, sleeps there.
I wish he would drop the key."
"Grandmamma says it will be open for people to go through before the sale,
but then it will be too late to look for the ring. Belle is so good at
thinking of things, I wish she would find a way for us to get in,"
Rosalind added.
A bell was heard ringing on the other side of the hedge, and Maurice
rose. "Dinner is ready," he said.
Rosalind walked to the gate with him. "Uncle Allan is coming to-morrow,"
she remarked, "and I just wonder what he is like."
Turning toward the house again, she became aware of a stranger standing
beside the griffins. He was not waiting to get in, for the door was open
behind him, and furthermore he had the air of being at home. Something in
his height and the breadth of his shoulders suggested her father, and as
she drew nearer a certain resemblance to Aunt Genevieve developed.
He watched her approach with a look of puzzled interest. "Surely, this
isn't Rosalind," he said.
Rosalind paused on the bottom step. "Why, yes, it is. Are you Uncle
Allan?"
"A great tall girl like you my niece? Pat's daughter? Impossible!" There
was a twinkle in his eye. Clearly, Uncle Allan was a tease.
"I suppose I shall have to be identified," said Rosalind, merrily.
"I begin to see a look of Pat about you." He came down the steps now and
took her hand. "Let's sit here and get acquainted," he said, leading the
way to the bench under the birch tree.
Two pairs of eyes, the brown and the gray, looked into each other steadily
and soberly for a few seconds, then a dimple began to make itself visible
in Rosalind's check, whereat the brown eyes twinkled again. "Well, what do
you think of me?" they asked.
"You aren't much like Great-uncle Allan," said Rosalind, laughing.
"Heavens! was that your idea of me? And I expected you to be a child of
tender age, although I should have known better. It is nearly fourteen
years since Pat went away."
"Uncle Allan, did you know my mother?" It was the first time Rosalind had
mentioned her mother since she had been in Friendship. She could not have
explained her silence any more than she could this sudden question.
"I did not know her, Rosalind. I wish I might have. I saw her once, and I
have never forgotten her face."
"I can remember her just a little, but father and Cousin Louis have told
me about her, and I have her picture."
"I think," said Uncle Allan, confidently, "that we are going to be
friends. Tell me how you like Friendship."
"I like it now. I was dreadfully lonely at first, till things began to
happen. Then there was Cousin Betty's tea party, where I met Belle and
Jack and the rest, and now--oh, I like it very much! It is a funny place.
Aunt Genevieve says you don't like it any better than she does."
Rosalind's tone was questioning.
"I believe it does seem rather a stupid old town," he acknowledged. "What
do you find interesting about it?"
"There is the magician and his shop; and the out of doors is so
beautiful--almost like the country; and the houses are different from
those in the city; and there is the will, and the lost ring." Rosalind
suddenly remembered her uncle's connection with the ring.
He did not seem to understand, for he asked, "What ring?" then added, "Oh,
you mean the Gilpin will. Who has told you about that?"
"Cousin Betty; and she told us the story of Patricia's ring, Uncle Allan,
don't you wish we could find it?"
Allan Whittredge smiled at the eager face. "I can't say I care much about
it," he replied; then seeing her disappointment, he added, "It was a
handsome old ring. Should you like to have it?"
"I'd like to see it; but of course it wasn't meant for me. Cousin Betty
said--" Rosalind paused, for the expression on her uncle's face was more
than ever like Aunt Genevieve, and he exclaimed impatiently, "Stuff!"
She felt rather hurt. She had expected him to be as interested in the ring
as she was. What did he mean by "stuff"? And why didn't he like
Friendship? Rosalind fell to pondering all this, sitting in the corner of
the bench, looking down at her hands, crossed in her lap.
After some minutes' silence she felt her chin lifted until her eyes met
the gaze of the merriest brown ones, from which all trace of disdain or
impatience was gone.
"What are you thinking about so soberly? Are you disappointed in me, after
all?"